


The Love of the Dark Lord

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Melkor can feel love and Sauron remains the Maia of Aule in service to someone he doesn't like, Unrequited Love, badfic, dubcon, lmao I don't know what this is but here u go, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>excerpt from a melkorcentric whump/woobie/angst fic I've been writing. It's horrible lmao and that's why I'm only posting a piece here.<br/>basically: Melkor loves Mairon. Mairon does not love him back. Melkor is /obsessed/.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of the Dark Lord

**Author's Note:**

> [pls scroll down and read disclaimer on my profile](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/profile)

Melkor sits upon his throne and, as always, thinks of Mairon. Thoughts of the beautiful, ageless Maia fill his mind as a constant source of pleasure and he does not fight the images nor sounds. Leaning back, he runs his thumbs in circles upon the armrests of his throne. Cold, hard iron meets his touch and proves difficult to engage with. No, he needs flesh, warm and yielding _just_ for him. He needs Mairon, the very same one that wanders past the throneroom hoping to go unnoticed. Mairon has his fána up as usual for convenience’s sake. Though powerful his will is, a body able to gesture and threaten has more amusing results than sheer mental domination. Melkor tugs at Mairon by the hair, the last threads of being his mind is able to grasp. Mairon curses himself for the lack of a speedy escape. He never blames his Master. Not for things like this.

He is no timid mouse when entering the throneroom, feeling cold air blast from the Dark Lord’s presence in this still, eerie hall. Shadows mock his imminent fate, one he can assume will be painful and unpleasant. He always assumes what his Master will do. Melkor’s needs are as predictable as the changing seasons.

Melkor beckons with a single, blackened finger.

 _‘His nails are growing into talons,’_ Mairon thinks absentmindedly. _‘Hm. I shall not hesitate to express this… disgust? Yes, that’s it. Long nails are unclean. Valar knows what he’s got under there.’_ His upper lip already curls to show teeth, a nasty sneer crawling in acidic trails up his face. His eyes tighten as if moisturized with lemon juice. Many fine lines form between his brows. Even Melkor can see that _he does not want to be here._

Melkor speaks. “Come.”

A single step from Mairon’s boot clacks against the icy floor. Curls of white smoke lazily rise to the ceiling, where screaming faces are formed in silent memory of the sacrifices performed here. Some of them look recent enough to catch Mairon’s interest. Melkor growls his attention back.

“Here.” Pointing at his own feet with legs parted and back stiff, Melkor’s deep command is short of breath. _‘He’s really doing it. He will obey.’_ His pupils dilate, his pants feel a little tight. Hell, all that clothes him becomes an aching constriction. This tense strain all over his body… it is his patience, and it nears a fine limit as Mairon walks. Mairon savours every second of slow stride as his personal space diminishes. When he is before Melkor, close enough to feel heavy breathing rustle his hair, he sighs.

“What do you want?”

Melkor’s finger indicates further closeness. Mairon leans in. Suddenly his face is drowning in oodles of inky hair and a vice holds his waist, Melkor’s large hands trapping him in place. The Dark Lord has captured his prey at last… and now holds his beloved Mairon in his lap, able to feel warmth at his neck. He cannot feel much through his clothes but Mairon is hot-blooded enough to transfer the heat of his presence across. Melkor’s left hand shifts up to cradle Mairon’s head, where rough fingers caress silky, lustrous hair. He groans very softly at the pure indulgence of holding his _precious_ in his arms, and closes his eyes.

“Oh, Mairon………”

Mairon knows this is not the time to struggle, but his face is squished and breath does not come easily when pressed against thick muscle, surrounded by a sea of long hair. He also does not care for the hand below his waist, splayed at his back and threatening touch to his buttocks. He can tolerate Melkor’s affection _to a degree_. It is when he has little say in his own sexuality that problems arise.

 _‘I do not have any work to do… and I cannot lie to him at all.’_ Mairon keeps his feeble intake of air as even and silent as possible, breathing through the corner of his mouth which is pulled back by grimacing muscles. _‘There is no escape.’_

 Melkor continues to hold him tight, like his black heart will freeze if he does not feel a living body against him. _‘Ugh.’_ Mairon senses a prying thought trying to worm through his alert mind. _‘How insufferable.’_ What touches his fëa is a shadowy hand, silhouetted with the spikes of a well-made gauntlet. The fingertips cold and pointed stroke against his searing alarm. Over and over every single ridge, bumping across anxieties and stress.

 _‘My poor, sweet Mairon…’_ Melkor croons all around his servant’s mind, filling his ears with a poisonous intent. ‘ _Have I been working you too hard?’_

‘ _No.’_ Short and snappy is the best way to reply, Mairon thinks. It is how he knows to express limited patience to his Lord. _‘You merely take up time which I do not have…’_

‘ _We have all the time in the world…’_ The hand flattens, curving around bricks that do not build their wall high enough in time. _‘Do not hide from me. Come closer.’_

‘ _Would that I had the strength… and ability. Master, you are crushing me.’_

 _‘…You feel… so good…’_ Melkor’s own thoughts swim into the slushy mess of what he communicates to Mairon. Soon enough he is unraveling the web of Mairon’s emotions to get at what he wants, the raw pleasure he knows will connect them both.

 _‘I do not want this.’_ says Mairon, and thrashes internally. Back and forth he struggles and his iron determination clashes with Melkor’s probing lust. Lust that turns from an open hand into a closed fist, and runs prominent knuckles against Mairon’s guard. Mairon feels the ridges of a violent threat meet his fierce resistance. There is a Vala’s mighty wrath waiting for him if he continues to deny. He does not know, however, what a diversion will bring.

Simply drawing himself into physical reality is risky – the further Melkor violates his body, the more corrupt he fears he will become. Melkor permeates his mind as he blackens pure flesh. Though Mairon is not pure any more, and will never be again. Against Melkor’s neck, he scoffs. He cannot hide in his mind, nor in the real world.

_He is lost._

Melkor knows Sauron is in no mood for sex but here upon his majestic throne he feels so… grand and powerful, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity. Drawing himself into reality just to be with Mairon, he wishes he has more power. Two more arms would be nice. One for the center of Mairon’s back. One to feel his thighs. Mmmm.

“Then… I will hold you.” Melkor whispers through smiling lips, unable to keep the joy from his gravelly voice. “You will stay.” His voice rises only enough to alert Mairon of uncertainty. That had almost been a question. Mairon sees advantage – Melkor is _weak_ with love, and it sickens him. He bares his sharp fangs against the Dark Lord’s colourless flesh and huffs out a harsh breath.

“Agh, at least let me rise! I shall faint upon you if I am constricted.”

Melkor lifts Mairon’s head by the hair to check what’s up and immediately Mairon snaps his whole body back. Accusing is the glare in his flaming eyes as he turns his head and pointedly looks at Melkor’s hand upon his ass. “And _what_ is **this** doing here??”

Melkor’s smile falters. “I…” He gives Mairon a soft squeeze. It’s so wonderful to hold, his hand big enough to grope an entire round cheek and then some. For a few seconds he massages until Mairon clenches.

“Stop that!!”

Melkor has just enough control to pause before Mairon starts screaming at him. The breath his servant takes in is so deep, he braces for an onslaught. Nothing but an exasperated sigh comes.

 _‘I don’t like this… what happened to before? I want to hold him again. We did not… for long enough…’_ Both hands Melkor takes to touch Mairon’s sides, sliding up along the fine seams there. Mairon’s robes today are deep crimson, long sleeved and tight around his body. Melkor licks his lips. “You are beautiful today, as always.”

“Ugh. Just let me go.” Mairon shakes his head, his curls bouncing about in a most aggressive fashion. _‘Pathetic. He thinks I forgive with mere compliments? Bah. And here I thought he held the power of knowledge…’_ His entire lower body is so tense it yearns to spring free, skeleton from flesh and all. Crawling beneath his skin reminds him of Melkor’s most recent touch. _‘When will he learn to keep his hands to himself?’_

Melkor no longer smiles. He regards Mairon with a curious desperation, hands trembling around his waist. “M…nh…”Before Mairon can move, Melkor pulls him back into a hug even more crushing than the last. Short of begging, the Dark Lord urges Mairon to stay in place with the power of his mind. It is a heavy hand upon his head, a weight in his limbs. Mairon in fury makes various attempts to tear himself free, succeeding only when Melkor’s concentration hitches. Melkor had only wondered _why_ Mairon was trying to escape and if it had anything to do with him when Mairon took his opportunity and fled. Now, Mairon is gone. Melkor is left with empty hands and the encroaching chill of the Nethermost Hall upon him.

He wraps his arms around himself.

He does not feel much like throne-sitting any more.

**Author's Note:**

> plot: melk just want love, mairon is perpetually exasperated, it's baaaaaaaaaad lmao


End file.
